


Caught Wanting

by williamTspears



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: :), Anal, Angst, Begging, Canon Compliant, Corruption Kink, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Frottage, Gentle Sex, I realised how few fics there still were in the UTWill tag on here and I thought well!, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, It's time to fix that, Lube, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Praise Kink, Predator/Prey Allusions, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Spit Kink, Topping from the Bottom, Written under the assumption they haven't met yet in canon, also size kink but it's not the focus, character meta....... but make it porn, mangaverse, manipulation kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26216536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamTspears/pseuds/williamTspears
Summary: ‘I don’t doubt Dispatch.’That man would let out a peal of laughter, tone bordering on cruel.‘You do. You do, and you don’t have to go as far as I have to be able to recognise that. You can just walk away from it all. It will be easy. And I am more than happy to keep you company, once you do.’---William spends an evening alone with his doubts, his desires, and a very vivid fantasy of one legendary deserter.
Relationships: William T. Spears/Undertaker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	Caught Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> It's been years since my last kuroshitsuji fanfic and I'm back! In potentially the most upsetting way possible, as I declare Undertaker's drool 100% erotic.
> 
> I recommend having caught up to at least chapter 149 before you start reading, so you'll have full context. Contains major spoilers for chapter 105/reaper origins. Proceed with caution if you still don't know where reapers come from, because I wrote this expecting the reader to know.
> 
> This was beta'd before I posted, but if you spot any issues or mistakes please don't hesitate to tell me!!

In the small, sparse, one-person apartment assigned to him by the Grim Reaper Dispatch Association, William T. Spears was lying in the dark, eyes trained on the ceiling. Even if it were not night, and he was wearing his glasses, there would be nothing worth looking at there. Still, he stared upwards, breathing steady, face blank.

William lived alone, and he slept alone. Most reapers did if they were taking their purgatory seriously, as far as he was concerned, though some did shun their assigned quarters to house with others. He didn’t know how many. He wasn’t interested in that sort of office gossip, and did his best to ignore the social goings-on of his peers. This time, when a reaper had finished their daily work and returned to the quiet of their homes, was a time for self reflection and renewed commitment to the Dispatch ideal, as you were able to gather your thoughts and review the reason why you were here. It was not a time for the distraction of camaraderie and warm bodies that pressed against one’s solitude and helped you forget what you were still stuck here for with wandering hands and trailing lips and thrusting hips that-.

William slept alone. This was a decision he had made, forcefully and deliberately, because the sooner he reached the pinnacle of reaperdom, the sooner he could be done with it. It was made easier by how much he despised his coworkers, their grating personalities and their short-sighted attitudes, both those ranked above him and those ranked below.

At the end of the day, William T. Spears was a devout reaper, but… William was also human, and a human has needs that itch beneath the surface of the skin and beg to be massaged away sooner or later by some means or another, by someone else’s hands or by one’s own. His thumb traced an uneven line line beneath his pyjama shirt, moving from his collarbone and down the side of his chest, pressing into the soft space between rib bone and hip bone, and there he paused. He shouldn’t do this, he knew, he shouldn’t be trying to distract himself from the sickly press of his past life’s memories and the reality of his current life’s work. Not to even begin to speak of how he had been conditioned to think of self-pleasure as such a sin when he was mortal. He had, in the years since his own death, let go of that ingrained hang-up as best he could. Many times, in fact, as ashamed as he would be to admit it.

William was tired. He was _lonely_. His room was cold, and his hands were warm. In a flash and all at once, he thought of his ideals, of his weaknesses, of the sheer impossibility of reaching perfection, and he thought of _that_ man, the one who had reached so close to perfection himself and fallen prey to his remaining human weaknesses. Unlike him, William was content to be exemplary in a more average way, as contradictory as that might sound. He would not fall quite so hard.

He thought of the deserter. He thought of deserting. He thought, too, of what that man might say to try and convince William to run away from his duties. To run away with him.

Grim reaper 136649. Went by his member number, rather than his name. Approximately 173 centimetres tall, not including heels. Silver hair. Pale skin. Standard eyes. Fine features. Exceptionally fine features. William had spent hours looking at the files, reviewing all the information collated from every source. Without ever asking to be, he had been assigned the task of keeping tabs on reaper 136649’s activities, of keeping all the files tracking his whereabouts and recent actions. It was yet more work he didn’t need, and if his subordinates were halfway competent then it wouldn’t be halfway so much trouble. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t blame them too much; even if they _were_ competent then there was still very little chance of them bringing this particular fugitive in, and William knew it. Number 136649 was a legendary fugitive, capable of destroying half of headquarters in a single escape attempt. He had consistently crushed any attempts at capturing him with a combination of luck and skill and cunning.

He was dangerous on a level William had never encountered before, and it was _fascinating._ That a man capable of such cruelty, such bizarre immorality, such twisted work that went so against everything they stood for, had once been London’s paragon reaper, unparalleled by any other on staff, was a dichotomy William just couldn’t understand.

There had to be a reason, or else it was pure insanity. And the way number 136649 behaved did not point to a sudden mental break. His crimes were despicable, his position indefensible, but his actions were perfectly rational, perfectly within the bounds of human behaviour, and his track record of offenses was perfectly matched to the beginning beats of recent world events.

Yes, William had been paying attention to the dates.

This was not like Grelle Sutcliff’s bloody little holiday. The cruelty was not the point. The fun was not the point. Not greed, not even pure sentiment or pure curiosity was the point. There was something deeper, and while that man might not be mad, it was beginning to drive William mad not being able to understand or identify the true basis of his logic.

He wondered if, when he was inevitably sent to capture that man, they might talk during the fight, and that might finally explain himself, if William said the right thing to prompt it. This was a dangerous line of thought. He had read the reports obsessively, he knew every detail that had been brought back to him on the subject of 136649 and the subject of 136649’s current persona. William knew how that man had needled at Grelle Sutcliff’s past weaknesses, in order to rile that trash officer up and make the fight easier. He knew how he had seemingly overcome their need to wear glasses, and had played Ronald Knox for the brash fool he was in the process. He knew how he had grasped at his unholy creations, as if their bodies were both as holy as a lover and as insignificant as a toy. He knew how he had struck so precisely with every swing and thrust of his scythe. William knew. William knew that going up against this man alone, daring to try and play his game, daring to invite him to seed doubts in William’s mind and find holes in William’s defences was an incomparably foolish idea. He could not waste time with this man. He could not let him in, in the way he was tempted to.

And what would it feel like, to be so dedicated to this eternity of living hell all reapers were subjected to, only to fall so quickly and so far into a brief and deadly false heaven, like number 136649 had?

William’s thumb pushed light circles into his hipbone as he considered all of the most pressing information he had collected.

It couldn’t end well—William himself would make sure of that, when either his team finally brought this culprit before him or he was sent to track the man down himself. 

What if, when he was sent, William was sent _alone?_ Would he defeat his foe easily? Or would his foe defeat him? Unlikely. He was not inclined to underestimate his enemies, and he was certain he could avoid falling into the same traps that his subordinates had. No matter how curious he was to find out the real reasons behind 136649’s desertion, he wouldn’t tempt fate like that. He wouldn’t let himself be taken advantage of. But what if he did fall into those traps? What if it was a closer match than either anticipated, reduced to a contest of endurance in which no tactic was off the table?

Vividly, he could imagine that man looking at him through a veil of unkempt hair, taunting him gently as they gripped each other for life or death. He could imagine those slender features so close to his own, staring him down and searching with a precise hunger for any small crack in his facade. Any flaw that could be exploited. It was monstrous. It was exciting.

‘You seem stressed, boy,’ the man before him would say. ‘I know. I know you. I used to _be_ you...’

‘You have doubts.’

And the version of William that he imagined in his head would purposefully ignore the taunt, ignore the thrill of being talked down to as if he was some fresh recruit who knew nothing.

The William presently here in his bed swallowed heavily.

‘You already know there's no point to our purgatory. There is no salvation in that path they give us. Those so-called higher-ups are hiding things you could never even guess. Why don't you let me show you what joys you're missing? What connections you're depriving yourself of? Let's unwind a while, you and me, and I'll _show_ you.’

It seemed a bit silly, he was aware, that the deserter in his mind would ever take such a forward stance without reason. He was manipulative, dangerous, but he wasn’t a mind-reader and there was no way he would be able to simply _guess_ how much William had been restraining and repressing himself. So perhaps... 

William reversed his own mental image, thinking of what might have occurred just before these taunts, where they had gotten too close and skin might have brushed skin or bodies might have pressed together or long, soft hair might have trailed across William’s neck and brought with it the heavy scent of another man in such close proximity to himself, and perhaps he might have reflexively flinched, or blushed, or taken a breath just a little too hard, and he had been caught _wanting._

And that man, perhaps, might have licked his lips like a hungry predator that had just sighted easy prey. And, therefore...

‘...I’ll _show_ you,’ he would hear that man breathe against his ear, hot breath sending a cold shiver down his spine.

He would freeze, pinned on the ground beneath his foe. But not… unwillingly. He shouldn’t let a man like this touch him so intimately. It was no better than allowing a demon to do so, at the point to which this man’s morals had sunk. He shouldn’t.

But he would.

In his bed, he pressed his free hand up beneath his pyjama shirt, to knead the flesh of his chest and let his fingers brush across his nipples every now and then. Just enough to tease. The thumb already at his hip made the decision to push under the waistband of his pants and stop at the base of his—ashamedly already wanting—erection.

‘What could _you_ possibly show that would have value to me, when you’ve already desecrated or thrown away everything valuable to you?’ the William in his head would ask, lip curling into a cruel sneer as he put up the same cold front he always does. A last-ditch attempt at defense.

They would be in a room, nondescript, with dark wood furniture and soft rugs that would not hurt to rub against the skin. This is where 136649 would have William pinned, his long hair fanning forwards to frame both their faces and box them in with nowhere else to look but towards each other. The lights above would filter through his thick locks, suffusing them with a dim glow, like ragged curtains failing to block out the early morning sun. They would have come in through the door during their fight, probably, and it would be damaged but still functional, as it would have to have swung closed on them at some point. This tryst couldn’t be had in the open. William could never allow it.

In response to his question, that man would lift him from their violent embrace on the floor and pin him against a set of drawers that would dig into the back of his thighs and would continue to do so unless he sat on top of it—and that would put him in a position with this legendary fugitive standing between his open legs, the 10 centimetre gap between their heights bridged, and their hips aligned just so.

William would not sit, breathing so heavy and so shallow as he felt the warmth of 136649’s palms against his wrists, fingers curling up beneath the cuffs of William’s shirt sleeves to grip his bare flesh and hold his hands down against the polished wood behind him.

That man would lean in flush against William’s chest, and his lips would brush against his ear while William’s false sneer would fade with nobody to witness it. He would know, he would be able to tell, that William was being deliberately obtuse.

‘I could show you everything you’ve ever wondered about. Anything you’ve ever longed to try. Teach you. But only if you want to,’ he would breathe against William’s skin and begin to chuckle, the vibrations of his chest against William’s sending a heavy, yearning warmth directly downwards. His grip would loosen around William’s wrists, and he would step to the side slightly, giving him an obvious chance to escape, to back out of this interaction completely or to begin the fight anew. This chance would not be a trap. Simply an offering, the clear choice to say no.

‘So, do you want to?’

Oh, _God_ , William wanted to.

But if he was just being manipulated?

That was a stupid question. Of course he was just being manipulated.

That was the point.

William's breath caught in his throat, as he weighed his desires against his duties.

‘I want it,’ he would finally admit. ‘I want you.’

And that man would step in once more, his tongue pressing against William’s jawline and licking in one sure, wet stroke across stubbled skin to suck against his earlobe and scrape his teeth against that sensitive junction between neck and jaw and ear.

‘Good boy.’

‘William. My name is William T. Spears, manager of the London branch.’

‘...Alright. Good boy, _William_.’

The deserter would travel down through kisses against William’s throat, across his Adam’s apple, towards his collar. Strong capable hands would grip William’s hips and lift him onto the drawers so that their hips could grind together, flush against each other and both of their arousals undeniably apparent.

“ _Yes_ ,” William breathed, both in his fantasy and out loud. He was surprised to realise he was already slowly pumping his cock, but he didn’t stop, thumb sliding against the tip to collect the precum beading there and smooth the process of skin sliding against skin.

That man would release William’s wrists, now, and William would wrap his arms around the deserter’s shoulders as he pressed his hips forward. Bracing a heel against the drawers, he would grind upwards, seeking sweet friction. Maybe he would even be rewarded with a moan or a gasp from his partner, and the deserter would start to escalate the situation.

He’d pulled the hand under his shirt out to press the tips of his fingers against his neck and collar, following the path that reaper number 136649’s lips would be taking. He began to unbutton his pyjama shirt as he imagined that man undoing William’s tie to work open his waistcoat and dress shirt, but he only did so enough to play into the sensations that should be there, or _would_ be there if this fantasy was real. To actually open his pyjama shirt would expose his chest to the cold night air, and distract him with the fact that there really was nobody here with him.

William imagined what it would feel like for reaper number 136649 to kiss him. To genuinely kiss him, directly, their lips pressed together and their tongues in each other’s mouths. What would it taste like? Would his mouth be warm? It would be wet, William knew, because the reports on his behaviour from the Campania incident had included details about his tendency to drool.

He would keep his mouth open, inviting, and when that man’s spit escaped their embrace and rolled down his chin William would lick it back, swallowing, drinking the essence of that man in. He would suck on reaper number 136649’s tongue and silently beg for more.

He would feel the disappointment when that man broke the kiss to mouth at his throat once more, working his way down to William’s now-bare chest where he would run his tongue across William’s nipples, take one between his teeth and twist the other between his fingers, and then he would begin to suck. The hot breath against William’s skin would contrast with the chill of saliva left behind, and he would shiver at that man’s touch, the hair on his arms standing on end.

‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ 136649 would ask, and William would fight the urge to not simply whimper in response.

‘Yes,’ he would gasp. ‘Yes.’

He thought about how it would look, to have that man before him, looking upwards and making direct eye contact as he played with William’s chest, teasing him. In his bed, William licked his own fingers, coating them in as much saliva as possible to imitate the press and suck of that man’s lips as he tugged gently at his nipple.

‘Good.’ He would press a kiss to William’s chest. ‘It’s not a crime to have fun,’ he would say, and his eyes would take on a decidedly wolfish glint. ‘Have you ever wondered why they try so hard to keep us in such miserable conditions? Locked up obediently in those stuffy office buildings?’

‘We’re being punished. It’s supposed to be stressful. That’s the point.’

The trepidation William felt was very real, and was not limited to the parameters of his fantasy. He already knew what questions came next. He already knew he should not be asking them, or allowing himself to be asked them by a facet of his own self, dressed up in black robes and wearing the mask of a deserter. There was malice, here, in the way “reaper number 136649” looked at him, and it was the malice of his own subconscious. 

His hands stopped moving, and William laid still, aware of how uncomfortably off-track this fantasy was about to veer.

‘Ah… But have you ever seen anyone finish their punishment and ascend? No? Who says it’s even possible? And who says all that soul collection is even for anything good? Do you _know_ that the souls move on, after you take them? Do you _know_ that it’s the natural order of things? Do you _know_ that the so-called higher-ups aren’t just fallible beings themselves, playing at being gods, disrupting the true natural order and using all us reapers as handy little tools to do so? Who taught you that, all those things you think you know? And why, oh, _why_ aren’t we allowed to ask questions like this?’

‘Because…-’

‘-If you can’t be sure, why go through all this pain to conform?’

‘Because it _is_ the order of things, all beings must die eventually, and we don’t just collect their souls. We protect them from demons, and from other filthy beasts like you.’ William would stick to script. This was what he was supposed to think. This was what he _did_ think. This was the point of their work. Guardianship.

But he could not answer for the rest. And he did not know if it was truly worth it, to put himself through each day at Dispatch when he did not know if the promised light at the end of the tunnel would ever arrive. He could only dedicate himself to the protection of souls and the protection of mortals, from those who wished to abuse the system.

Those like the man he was imagining before him, the irredeemable criminal that William apparently wanted to bend him over the nearest table and fuck him until he begged.

‘You’re an opportunist,’ William concluded. ‘A vulture.’

‘And?’ he would ask, maybe unhappy with being insulted, but still smiling. ‘Vultures are natural too. And what I may be has nothing to do with what you are, and what you force yourself to pretend is true. You’re tired of it, aren’t you? Tired of acting the part. Of playing the paragon, like I did. You don’t have to stay with Dispatch to put down demons and protect souls. And you know…’

‘...It’s much more fun, anyhow, to play the vulture than the virtuous,’ that man would say, grinding their hips together with force to jumpstart the fantasy once more. This wasn’t an invitation for William to join him as an equal predator. This was reinforcement that William was his prey, and he was having fun in the same way a cat had fun terrorising a mouse.

William pulled his pyjama pants off and sat with his back up against the headboard, mimicking the position of himself atop the drawers that was playing out in his mind and ignoring the chill of the night air against his bare thighs.

The deserter would crush their lips together again, tongue forcing its way back into William’s mouth. One of his hands would reach up to run his fingers through William’s hair, roughly pushing it out of place so that his fringe fell forwards into his eyes.

'Much better,' he would say as he withdrew from their embrace to survey his handiwork, a thin line of spittle trailing between them. Dutifully, William would lean forwards to catch it, pulling number 136649 back into the kiss. There was something about the deserter, about the more bestial traits he exhibited—the drool, the cunning, the physical prowess—that William had found himself caught on. Because at the same time, as inhuman as he was, he was still far from the level of demons or those who simply killed for pleasure. He had never destroyed or waylaid any souls, not yet, he had not killed anybody who was not already on the death list, and had his experiments not begun to mess with their records and alter the rate of human technological advancement then he would not have even registered on Dispatch’s radar. His crimes were unique. Measured. Competent. William was having trouble identifying why exactly this was appealing to him, and reconciling his own morals with that concept. To accept that he saw his own potential failings in this man would be too terrifying a thought.

Grim reaper number 136649 was the very definition of taboo for William T. Spears, and that he represented such taboo while displaying all the hallmarks of an accomplished predator, a beast to take advantage of the willing victim that would be William, was the worst kind of uncanny familiarity. And this victim would, with gratitude, take that predator’s ill-treatment as if it were a gift, and embrace the fangs that were intended to pierce his neck. Swallow the spit and kiss the mouth that would feed him insecurities and suspicions about the system to which he was dedicated and bound to.

By this point William’s lips would be crushed red, and he would feel his cock seeping precum through his trousers. Grabbing that man’s hand, he would pull it down to the space between their hips, inviting and impatient. Number 136649 would laugh lightly against William’s mouth, acquiescing to undo William’s belt and the fronts of their trousers. Calmly, analytically, that man would wrap his hand around William’s cock and begin to tug. Testing what worked best, what grip and speed and movement would make William tremble, weak at the knees and needy for more. He would pull back from the kiss to watch William’s face, spare hand coming up to grip his hair again and stop him from looking away, from hiding his expressions. He wondered just how well that man could see without glasses. Well enough up this close, surely, to see the way his lips would tremble, his cheeks would flush, and the way his eyebrows would knit together in rapture. When William closed his eyes, that man would release his hold on his cock, running his hand up William’s side beneath his parted and dishevelled clothes. Palm flat, massaging over his hip, his ribs, and down again, teasing him for breaking eye contact.

William was in a miserable state against the head of his bed, and he copied the action as closely as he could, aching deeply for the real touch of another body to press against his own. If the deserter himself had somehow wandered into his bedroom at this very moment, William could not see himself rejecting him, no matter the consequence. His own breathing heavy in his ears, he returned his hand to his slick cock.

‘Eyes on me, now,’ that man would warn, and William would nod, instinctively glancing downwards even though he knew that wasn’t what his partner was referring to.

How large would he be? What shape, what thickness? Would it be pale, like the rest of him, or darker in tone? Flushed from excitement? William had lived long enough and watched the lives of enough people to be aware that height and weight did not generally correlate to size in this regard. It wasn’t knowledge that he had ever intended to collect, but... Plenty of people died in compromising positions. For the briefest of moments, he wished that official records had included this measurement, but he knew that was a very, very bad idea, so he brushed the thought aside almost as quickly as it had arrived. He did not _ever_ want to know the lengths of his coworkers.

It would be equally erotic, in his opinion, for reaper number 136649 to be equal in size to him or larger in size than him or smaller in size than him, and that was what made the choice difficult. If they were equal, then that would feed directly into the thought of their being evenly matched, mirrors of each other. If that man was larger, there was the classic thrill of being dominated in every aspect. If he was smaller, that same thrill could be flipped—the unconventional nature of their positions would lend weight to the unconventional scene. So he thought about how each would feel, once they were inside him.

This, too, did not help, and sent a pang of wanting downwards through his torso.

He would feel it in the aftermath for longer, if that man was larger, and this was the deciding factor; the promise of lingering consequence. Larger in length and in girth, lightly flushed with arousal, most likely uncircumcised, a slight upwards curve, and decent but not extreme veins. As pretty as that man’s face and just as tempting. That would do nicely.

And the heat of it placed against his own cock as that man began to stroke them together would make William buck his hips with need. Slick skin against slick skin, rubbing in even thrusts as that man gazed into his eyes. With his arms wrapped around that man’s shoulders, William would thread his fingers into that curtain of silver. He didn’t dare undress him; William wasn’t interested in equalising their positions.

‘Good boy,’ that man would croon, thumb swiping across their tips while Wiliam began to whimper from the attention. ‘You look so right like this. So natural. Relax for me, let me take care of you.’

The speed of his hand would increase, slightly, building up in small increments to a promised crescendo that never came, as he would pull his hand away abruptly when William was just about to peak.

William, too, had to stop here, and calm down. It wasn't the right time for things to end, and he was determined to see things through. They weren't finished in his fantasy, so he couldn't let himself finish either. He could feel, as he deprived himself, the instinctual need to thrust his hips against something soft and solid and warm, lingering in his muscles. Pent up energy with nowhere else to go, slowly coiling back into the rest of his body, a unique sort of restlessness.

‘So lovely…’ that man would lean in, pulling William forward with the grip in his hair to murmur against the shell of his ear. ‘...So desperate. You want more, don’t you? You want this vulture to take full advantage, yes?’

Panting heavily from his near-climax, William would fail to suppress a moan of desire.

‘You want me to take what I want, whatever I want?’

‘...Yes...’ William would breathe. ‘Yes. Please. Take me.’

Peppering hot kisses against the skin of William’s neck, the deserter would produce a small bottle of oil. This was not hard to rationalise. They were in the human realm, so their options were vastly limited, but this man had taken up the guise of a funeral worker. Of _course_ a man who worked as a mortician and walked around dressed as a funeral mute would have spare olive oil for vigil lamps. That it so happened to be suitable for multiple purposes was a happy coincidence. The ironic poeticism of two grim reapers using vigil oil as lubrication for homosexual activities was not lost on him. In memoriam, under the light of Our Lord Saviour, so on and so forth. Perhaps they would do this on an altar, next time. The thought was so tempting that William very nearly abandoned the current setup to transpose the entire fantasy to this new scene. Nevermind the soft rugs, dim lighting, and dark oak furniture. This could be worship.

Next time.

It was at this point, when he would have much preferred to be thinking about the feel of oil-slicked fingertips teasing their way up his inner thighs, that William also remembered the reports having mentioned reaper number 136649’s claw-like nails. 

William was not a masochist. He had no desire whatsoever to be penetrated by anything that didn’t bring pleasure, which meant he would have to prepare himself. And that man would get to watch. This was both worse, and better.

‘Have you done this before?’ that man would ask with his lips resting against William’s collarbone. ‘I can guide you.’

‘I haven’t,’ William would lie. ‘Please.’

Pulling back after a light nip against his skin, number 136649 would pour the cold oil near the base of William’s cock, letting it drip around and down towards where it really needed to be, his eyes meeting William’s with a sense of tense expectation. The cold liquid running against the heat of his skin would make William arch his back, and that man’s face would light up with a mischievous delight. He would reach for William’s still-gloved hand, pulling it forward, and William would acquiesce. He would allow his glove to be removed for him, those wicked nails digging under the fabric with a pleasant scrape, and then he would slick his own fingers with the oil on his skin. Their eye contact as he massaged himself would be near continuous, breaking only for that man to look downwards and survey as best he could the way William pushed the first finger inwards, the way he pulled it out, and in, and out again. He would whisper low and soothing words of encouragement, instructions, suggestions. William would do everything he was told.

In his bedside table, William was ashamed to admit, he had a bottle of his own oil for exactly this purpose. He tried not to make a habit of it. He had no addiction to pleasure-seeking. But he did have the oil, and he did know what to do with it. Coating his fingers, he abandoned his cock entirely in favour of fresh sensations.

True to his word, reaper 136649 would guide William well. Never rushing, ever watching. When William was three fingers deep, he would lean in again to resume their kisses, licking and biting, with his nails digging into William’s thighs and what little was left of William’s integrity held tight between his teeth. By the time they were finished, that integrity would be devoured entirely.

‘So obedient...’ that man would croon, warm praise dripping from his tone. ‘Doesn’t it feel different, doing as I say? Deferring to me and not those worthless higher-ups who only want to keep you on a leash? Doesn’t it feel better?’

It did. It did. It really, _really_ did.

William could feel the length of that man still pressing against him, sticky with their precum and just as wanting as he was. He would pull William’s legs upward, bringing them to a more suitable position and getting his trousers well out of the way of what they were about to do. He would place his hand on top of William’s, telling him to try curving his fingers. He complied with enthusiasm, finally pressing against _that_ spot and stifling a high moan in the back of his throat.

‘You know there’s a difference,’ his partner continued, as he poured some of the oil onto his cock. ‘You know it feels better. Because you want this, you don’t want them. You want to do as you please. You want pleasure. You want something you won’t doubt.’

‘I don’t doubt Dispatch.’

That man would let out a peal of laughter, tone bordering on cruel.

‘You do. You do, and you don’t have to go as far as I have to be able to recognise that. You can just walk away from it all. It will be easy. And I am more than happy to keep you company, once you do.’

The head of his cock would press against the place where William’s fingers were buried, a silent request for entry. William would withdraw his hand to make room, but his eyes would narrow at that man’s words.

‘I don’t need company from someone like you,’ he retorted, and was filled with immediate regret.

‘Oh, _well,_ if you say so,’ that man would scoff, and shift away from William.

The cold absence of his body, no longer pressing close, no longer chest to chest and mouth to mouth, was unthinkable, and William would wrap his legs around that man’s waist to keep him firmly in place.

‘Wait.’

‘Oh? Changed your mind, hmm~? You want this old vulture’s company after all? Tell me, or I’ll leave.’

‘No.’ William said. ‘I don’t want your _company._ I want you to _use_ me. There’s a difference, and you know it. Don’t try and twist this into something it’s not.’

‘Ahhh,’ the deserter chuckles. ‘So it’s just like that, is it? Nothing more? Whatever works for you, I suppose.’

Lining himself up to push his warm cock inside, he would press forwards slowly. Teasingly, he would only insert the head, dragging it back and forth against his entrance until William began to squirm beneath him. When William tried to pull him in further, number 136649 would resist, holding him in place with a strength that contradicted his slender form. He wanted William to beg again. He was annoyed, and he was having fun making William state his desires out loud.

‘Please... Please.’

‘Please _what_ ~?’

‘Please fuck me.’

Finally, that man would carefully push his full length inside, pressing his mouth against William’s to catch his fractured moan.

‘Alright?’ he would break the kiss to ask, waiting for William to adjust.

He was certain that after so many years of only having his own fingers to play with, to be fully speared on that man’s cock would be sublime. He wouldn’t answer right away, focused as he was on the sensation of being filled, and when he did it would be wordless, nodding with his breath ragged and eyes unfocused. When that man began to rut into him, William would crush their lips back together. He wanted to take in as much of 136649 as he possibly could, to suck on his tongue as he was being stretched open.

That man’s wandering hands would push and pinch and grab at William’s bare flesh, overloading his senses with a hundred little intimacies. His own hands threaded in that silver hair, he would barely be able to register the softness of it, his attention so split by every feeling there was to focus on.

On his bed, William was doing his best to ignore his leaking cock and focus only on the ministrations of his fingers, buried as deep inside of him as humanly possible. If he gave in and touched his cock as well, that would be the end of it, and it was as good as saying he was ready to be done with it. By no means was he ready to be done with this. It had to last.

The deserter would be doing his utmost to unravel William, body and mind, and he wanted that—oh, God, did he want it—, but William’s train of thought was beginning to go off the rails again. It wasn’t enough to just be used, and passive. That would be a waste of the scene. He had to be an active participant in his own fall, now that he’d had a taste of what could be. Now that he was so far beyond the point of no return. He had to…

‘On the floor,’ he would gasp. ‘Lay down.’

That man would hum with curiosity at the request, but would do as he was told (he had no choice, he was not real). His thrusts would slow to a halt, and he would carefully extract himself from their embrace, making sure that William was not about to collapse without his support. The loss of his girth, no longer buried inside him, would make William almost regret the order. Almost.

Stepping back, he would take a moment to duck down and quickly lick a stripe up the side of William’s cock, laughing to himself when William squeaked at the unexpected stimulation.

‘ _Lay down!_ ’

Stepping backwards, and not once looking away from William despite his lack of glasses, he would lower himself onto a sitting position on the rug and begin to idly stroke himself, smirking.

Gingerly pushing himself off of the drawers, William would roughly step out of his shoes and strip himself of his wrinkled clothing. He wouldn’t try and make a show of it; he didn’t feel like it and the effort would be lost on a man who couldn’t even see him properly. Kneeling to straddle the deserter’s lap, he pushed down on his shoulders.

‘Can’t you just do as you’re told?’

‘Pushy, pushy, whatever happened to wanting to be used?’

‘Oh good grief, did I say I changed my mind? Shut up.’

The man would not shut up, but he would lay down.

‘Ah, the rabbit impaling itself on the hunter’s spear, I see…!’

William would ignore the innuendo, taking that man’s cock in hand, lining it up carefully, and lowering himself back onto it with a groan of relief.

In his bed, William shifted forward to rest on his knees, riding his fingers. He could hear his breath was ragged, and he idly wondered if his face was very flushed. It certainly felt like it was.

He could see in his mind’s eye, that man spread out on the floor before him, his hair splayed out like a ragged silver halo and his eyes half-lidded with lust. There was something saintly about his face, something pure, and it was something so ironic that had always struck William when he was reviewing the files and saw those dainty features on a creature so foul.

‘Don’t move,’ he would command, and that man would hum his consent.

Steadying himself against the floor with his hands either side of that beautiful, disconcerting face, he began to ride that man’s cock, rhythmically. True to orders, the deserter would keep his hips still, but would still reach upwards to grab William’s hands, gently massaging circles of encouragement into his inner wrists with his thumbs. The intimacy of it was unbearable, but he couldn’t bring himself to make it stop. 

William’s thighs would soon begin to tremble from the effort, and his pace would begin to falter, tight heat building inside him and demanding release.

Now was the time for this to end, William knew, and he wrapped his spare hand around his cock to stroke in earnest. He was practically sitting on the hand inside him by this point, as he ground his hips downwards and curled his fingers inwards against that spot in as even a rhythm as he could manage.

‘Please,’ he would beg once more, having given himself over so willingly and completely, attempting to convey his desperation for that man to take charge again in a single word and the unevenness of his pace.

In one swift, intolerably competent movement, he would be lifted and lowered onto his back, their hands clasped and that man’s nails digging into his skin. The deserter would start to thrust, and William would finally start to unravel for him.

“Please, please, _please._ ”

He was begging aloud, now, faintly aware of his voice filling what remained of the broken silence in his bedroom. He could hear the wet sounds of skin against skin, enraptured by the thought of the sounds that would come from that man’s cock driving into him and their hips coming together, again, and again, and again. Again. Again.

‘Come for me, William.’

His body shuddered, and William let out a breathy moan as he was filled with waves of pleasure and relief. He ground down against his curled fingers one last time, hands and hips jerking in place as his insides clenched and his bedsheets were stained in strips of white.

He could imagine that man faltering too, pushed over the edge by the sensation of William’s orgasm around him, releasing fully and thickly inside of him as they came in unison.

For these few, precious moments, William was enveloped in a mindless bliss.

Panting, trembling, and rapidly cooling down from the heat that had so suffused every part of him just moments earlier, William tiredly considered the mess he had just made. Instead of quietly going to sleep as he had originally intended, he had done... this. Without his glasses and in the dark, he couldn’t see the exact consequence of his actions, but he could guess what it looked like.

Faced with the silent stillness of his bedroom, and nothing more to distract him, William felt his every anxiety begin to crawl their way back into his chest, sinking their claws in twice as hard to the places they had been chased from by this fleeting diversion.

William was not, as much as he liked to pretend he was, a very good reaper. He was not dedicated, outside of a desire to be done with this purgatory. He was not emotionless, and as cold as he could act he was still plagued by empathy for the miseries he witnessed daily. He was not particularly moral, even if he abided by all the rules. All he was, was alone, and he clearly wasn’t very good at that, either.

Inevitably, he _would_ be sent by the higher-ups to arrest grim reaper number 136649, when all else failed.

He could redeem himself then, stop the traitor from causing any more trouble for Dispatch.

It would balance out this… unfortunate indiscretion.

...

Perhaps they would meet in a church.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Undertaker's grim reaper number off by heart now. I'm not proud of this.


End file.
